The Aftermath
by Elinde
Summary: After the First Battle of Beleriand negotiations are taking place. But not everyone is willing to go with the flow.


**Disclaimer: all canon places, persons and events belong to Tolkien**

A/N: I wrote this very quickly and I hope the facts are straight. If I have misunderstood something please tell me and I'll correct it, unless it completely destroys the story haha.

* * *

He looked out on the wasteland that had ended his old life. Though his face was impassive inwardly he was seething. They hadn't tried hard enough and despite them his kin had lost. Mind you why should they have tried harder? It wasn't as if their precious forests were at stake, and he knew that if their roles had been reversed he would have been loathed to ride to their aid. But they had come, and therefore they should have fought as though those dying were their kindred too. He was about to lose everything.

"My sincerest condolences to you at your time of hardship. My people and I shall stand by you and our thoughts go out to you."

That was their king, quite possibly the tallest being he had ever seen. He was talking to a small group of Nandor; the last remaining lords now that Denethor was dead and his kingdom in ruin. It seemed no gave a thought to the land, the trees, their home that had been since Elves first came out of the east. Now they were being forced to leave. Couldn't they stop talking for a moment and consider all that had been destroyed?

"Thank you, my king."

He twitched; it had begun. The fall from respected son of a lord to downtrodden liability. What made it worse was that it was his own father who had spoken, who had been so quick to forsake the old ways and pander to this king whom none of them had seen before though he professed kinship. Ithilbor looked up and caught his son's disapproving gaze. Not that this was anything new. His son folded his arms and turned his back on them.

The funeral pyres for the dead Nandor and Sindar were burning well now, filling the already smoky air with a sickly sweet smell that made him want to wretch. But he kept his expression one of hurt disgust. He traced the slight dip of a scrape in the earth with the toe of his boot. Someone had fallen and died here. He could tell by the traces of blood in the earth. The marks left by their armour.

"I extend to you and you kindred the opportunity of a life in safety within my boarders."

There it was; the inevitable offer. The offer that seemed kind but was in fact a sentence to a second class existence. He refused to spend the rest of his life living on sufferance, serving another realm's king and never himself or his own again. He knew what thereply would be and it sickened him.

"My lord we accept. You are indeed gracious."

One fell swoop and they were forever indebted to this Elf and his kingdom, when in fact they had been failed by them. This was their fault. Their presence had given false hope only for it to be dashed in the most appalling of circumstances. And now he would have to live the rest of his life with these people. He could live alone but he knew the solitude would drive him mad. And there was talk of a girdle being placed around Doriath; unless he was on the inside when it was formed he would never get in. He wondered what would become of him. What was the appropriate career for the son of a lord who had lost everything? Who now scratched out a living with the people who told themselves they had saved him? Common servant? Labourer? Nothing appealed. Everything would be demeaning. As was the title the king had just given them: 'Guest Elves'. That was a sentence in itself.

The others were on the move now. There was nothing more to do here and the promise of a warm fire and healers in Menegroth. The surly Nandor knew they were leaving but didn't move. He was still planning.

Of course he could get there first. He shifted and the chink of his armour gave him hope. He had survived this not by chance but by skill. He was a fighter, proved in battle. He would keep fighting. He wouldn't let himself be downcast and downtrodden. No drawn swords were allowed in Menegroth? Well then, his father frequently told him he had sharp ears and an even sharper tongue. Let them be his weapons to keep him afloat in this new court. No, he wouldn't fall. He would do anything to prevent himself from falling.

Ithilbor finally noticed his son's lack of movement. He was tired and anxious and didn't want to be shown up in front of his new kinsmen. He hung back and called to his son:

"Saeros! Move yourself!"

A grin was spreading across Saeros' face. Yes, if they tried to push him around he could easily counter them. And he was willing to bite and scratch anyone and everyone who crossed his path so he kept a decent position.

"_Saeros!_"

Adopting an expression of resigned annoyance, Saeros did as bidden.

* * *

A/N: I've been thinking about Saeros quite a lot recently (you know, saying yes he was a bitch but this is why, kind of like what people on Tumblr do with Loki) and then I woke up today with this playing in my head (and found myself visualising him in a very different way to before but I prefer how he looks to me now. NNng I wish I could draw!) I had to edit it because I got the location of the battle wrong but I hope it's still easy to follow and enjoyable. Actually if I could cosplay as anyone I think I'd be Saeros because from today on I imagine him as a brunette and I'm a brunette so that's easy to start with. And I think he'd be a fantastic person to roleplay. You'd get to be all horrible to people all day because you'd be 'in character'. But I haven't the money nor the reason to get a constume made up DX


End file.
